One whose name was writ in shadows
by Filigranka
Summary: An exercise in using somewhat lurid romance novel prose to describe an existential - almost - crisis. Almost. Written for Yuletide. [sort of Deirdre, sort of Corwin, sort of romance]


For auburn.

Beta: my dearest invisible_cities.

* * *

**One whose name was writ in shadows**

* * *

It was a damn breathtaking romance. I still consider it breathtaking and beautiful, and frail; a fickle little thing, that love of mine – though perhaps I should know better by now. Perhaps I should call it cruel and manipulative, vicious; a cold, devastating monster. Perhaps it was just weakness (a soft spot for him? or for my past self?) or arrogance that stopped me from using such words. Necessary words, truthful words – perhaps.

But "necessary words" paled compared to my memories of him: tall, pale skin, dark hair, all bones and muscle – and no scars, though he moved like a soldier. He looked – looks, I presume, wherever he is – haunted, mostly because of his usual detachment. Not that he was indifferent, no, he acted lively, lovely, he was always faking attention and involvement. My friends adored him, because he remembered their birthdays, spouses, likes and dislikes; because his small-talk smile shone brilliantly; because his words could be poetry sometimes – the modern kind, harsh, elliptic, beautiful in its vulgarity. Oh, and he often quoted Shakespeare and knew his way around the minefield of visual arts. The perfect party guest, truly!

So most of people believed him, his words, his smiles, his care. I never could, no matter how hard I tried. I always had a feeling he was just cataloguing them (not me, never me), accumulating the data, like spy or scientist of a sort. Or a writer. Artists are like that: distant, though observant, using people and lives in their works and then abandoning them like an empty themes, old-fashioned motifs, songs which they grow bored with.

I know how artists are, 'cause I am one. Somehow. Or just a dreamer. But I've wanted to create a music since I was kid. I took piano lessons, I sang in the choir, I got my degree in musical composition. Then I found, with a bit of surprise, that I would very much like to have a stable, high income – and so I started to work in the marketing industry. But I would still compose something for myself only, from time to time.

That was how we met, after all. In a very normal, boring way. There was a cafe I loved, and he was there, too, and I was writing a string quartet, and he was writing a long poem, and our eyes met – by chance, I thought then – and he smiled, and I smiled back, and suddenly we were talking, and he was very interested in my piece, and I was really fascinated by his poetry – et cetera. Et damn cetera. Very banal, clichéd thing, that romance of ours.

Except for the words he spoke during one of our firsts discussion (it was a fierce battle over Japanese art, if I remember correctly). "I've been looking for you for so long – I searched worlds, hundreds of worlds... Just to find you here." Again a cliché, or close enough, but the way he said it – there was a ring of truth to it. Something very honest, very vulnerable in its honesty. Like he'd just shared a secret with me – and I believed him immediately, though not without cursing myself for being such a naive, sentimental girl.

He said his name is Corwin. Mine is Dolores – and he was astonished, shocked even, upon hearing it for the first time.

"It's a beautiful name and suits you well," he said, trying to hide his surprise, "but I have always thought of you as a Deirdre. I don't know why. It's just... wild association, I guess. Nothing Freudian, I hope," and he smirked nonchalantly.

"Didn't you simply know some Deirdre that I could remind you of?" I suggested, somehow amused by his reaction.

He took a cigarette, drew on it slowly and answered: "No, I've never met a person with that name. But," he shrugged, "the myths say she was the fairest of all the women in Ireland. I believe these words about beauty might give ample reason. Or would you find such an explanations too forward?" he asked.

There was already a tatted lace of smoke between us. I didn't mind. I was falling in love at that point – and was somewhat touched by the way he used the cigarette as an escape route – so though I did find it a bit too bold, I laughed warmly and told him to call me Deirdre, if he wished to do so.

'***

Corwin was a chain-smoker. Probably the only one I knew who really wasn't addicted to the nicotine. No, I'm not stupid: he was an addict, of course – just not to the nicotine. No, he was addicted to the safety of the smoke, the castle of the gesture – one hand, always turned back to the world, hiding the lower half of his face; always in the same, mechanical way – the easiest excuse for pauses in conversation. His escape route, his one and only safe place: a silver cigarette case, silver lighter and finally the smoke, the cigarette itself. I very much doubt he liked the taste. I doubt he even noticed such details. Just something to steady your hands and your breath, to buy you time, hide your face behind the smoke, behind the neutrally pleasant expression your face would always automatically assume at the very moment the cigarette touched your mouth.

I'm not sure if he knew how easy all of it was to decode. I'd like to believe he let me – just me – close enough to see it, that he left me some hints in his behaviour, that the wanted me to know him better. I'd like to – but I really don't know.

Yet our relationship went well. He helped me with composing, I was the firsts reader of his poems, to which I planned to create a score some day. We discussed art and politics, fervently, we fought and reconciled, we spent leisure evening in cafes, jazz bars or concert halls, we danced, went on trips, laughed, drank, sang pastiche songs in karaoke bars – and lived, in fact, very separate lives. My job was demanding, his professional life – even more so, although he would just up and leave for a few weeks or even months, once or twice a year. He never told me why. Now when I think of it, I never really asked. He might have spoken like a poet, but he moved like a soldier, after all.

The most incredible things was, he acted like he had known me my whole life. It was the fairy-tale kind of love, really. A soul-bond. We were two halves of an orange, apple or whatever other fruit is popular now. Those little problems, which I mentioned earlier, what were they, when compared to such a love? He knew my taste, he knew my needs, the underlining patterns of my dreams, my strengths and weaknesses. I couldn't be anything other than myself near him. Which might sounds terrible, but was, in fact, quite soothing. He loved me for what I was, for me, myself – and that was what was so breathtaking.

Yet there were some strange pauses in our routine. Little things, easy to dismiss, easy to forget. He liked me best in silver and black; they were my favourite colours, true, but sometimes I would want to wear something more vivid. He never dared to say a word against it, but it clearly bothered him, unnerved him even. When I asked, he just waved a hand – before taking a cigarette. But he answered me – just once – in plain words, which hid the riddle.

"I cannot recognise you."

There were other things, of course. He would make me coffee without sugar, though I preferred it sweetened – I'd always had a sweet tooth. But even after years, he would still, as if on instinct , order rather spicy dishes for me. Every time I pointed that out, he would light the cigarette, flash that pleasant smile of his and say something about "trying to convince me to taste something new." I would smirk, say something about "being too tough a woman to get taken in by a pair of pretty eyes" – and we would dismiss it. Time after time.

'***

Of course, the fairy-tale must have its witch. Evil witches preferred. My evil witch is a beautiful, frivolous thing with blond hair and blue eyes. She loves dances, laughter, comfortable life and men. She is the kind of a creature which invites you – no, forces you – to be a poet, when you try to talk about her. It cost me much to not start her description from phrases like: "the colour of her hair was a cross between sunset clouds and the outer edge of a candle flame in an otherwise dark room" or "her eyes were as blue as Lake Erie at three o'clock on a cloudless summer afternoon."

But, onwards to the story. The plot. The scene. The dramatic sight of the heroes and the vicious giggle of history.

I was woken up by Corwin's murmurs. Well, that would be quite normal; the fact that after a couple of seconds beautiful girl appeared from thin air was definitely not.

"Florimel!" he shouted, bemused.

"Oh, I interrupted? I'm sorry – but aren't we even now, dear brother? We – I – need you help in Amber. It's about Merlin." She smiled sweetly. "Once more, I was the one to find you!" she added triumphantly. "Though Fiona will be arriving soon. We really need your help and I think they think she has better chances of convincing you than I do."

I was... disoriented, to put it mildly. And nobody was willing to share even the smallest bit of information with me. Corwin seemed concerned only with Amber and Merlin, whatever they were – Florimel ignored me completely.

Till the moment I finally got irritated and confused enough to turn on the light, that is. When she finally saw my face, her eyes went wide and– even in the dim light – her skin paled.

"Deirdre?" she exclaimed, covering her mouth with a slender hand, "But that's – impossible! Which means – oh. She's – it's a Shadow, then? Isn't it against the rules?"

"I'm not sure," answered Corwin. "Anyway, shouldn't I have a few privileges after creating my very own Pattern? Saving the world? Living a few decades imprisoned in my own chapel?"

"My name is Dolores," I interrupted them. "And I would be rather pleased if you explained the 'Deirdre' thing to me. Now. With lengthy digressions about 'Amber' and 'Merlin', and also a lot of details about the 'midnight teleportation in strangers' bedrooms' thing, if you please."

To be fair, I got my explanation. Shortened version, because, if I understood the auburn-haired lady (who appeared a moments later) correctly, the foundations of the world – worlds, in fact – were endangered by dark and powerful forces. Really. I got my explanation and immediately wished I hadn't asked.

'***

I threw Corwin away. "Don't you dare," I shouted, "come back to me, to this house, to this city, to this world – Shadow, or whatever you call it – again! If you ever try, I promise, I swear: I will claw the eyes out of your head!" He shivered then – it hurt me and I was suddenly reminded how much I had loved this man just a few minutes ago.

Which only made me even more angry. I cursed him, that night, I cursed him and Amberites and the World-of-Worlds, Amber itself.

Fiona – the second woman to show up, fierce, intelligent and sharp, another sister of Corwin's – said that my curses lacked the power of true curses, curses of Oberon's children (of course!), which only made me more furious. Damn them – they took not only the real out of my reality, but the meaning out of my emotions.

Corwin, I must admit, tried to rein in his sister, but to no avail. Besides, I was too enraged to care about such poor attempts.

Why should I feel any compassions towards him – towards them, Amberities, practically immortal, exiles in every world, burning with the need for the Real – a Real castle, a Real world, a Real... something? He tried to earn my sympathy by telling me all of that. Maybe he did it out of habit of pleasing women, maybe he was just used to being the tragic hero from chansons de geste. Maybe he needed to do it, because he liked me and wanted my forgiveness. Maybe because of Deirdre, that sister of his. I don't know. What I know is this: that night, I really couldn't have cared less.

Because, as I pointed out, at least Amberites knew where such Real was to be found. Their lives might be endless seeking – but they weren't a lie. They had access to the Truth and the Reality, and the Meaning. That night I understood I would never have any of it, and nor would I have the soothing lullaby of a lies anymore – and I hated them all, Corwin and Florimel and Fiona, for taking it away from me.

"See what you have done, my ladies?" he asked finally, voice thick with wariness. "I – we were so happy..."

"I told the truth," answered Fiona, smiling brightly, "for a change. Let's go – or will you let Amber burn because of this Shadow of Deirdre's you like to pretend to truly love?"

"My name," I reminded her, as Corwin went to the other room to put some clothes on, "is Dolores."

"My brother's mistake, then," she replied promptly, all radiant, shining and perfect. "Small one, as you're her spitting image in all but such trivialities."

"I like sugar. And sweet things," I announced, feeling silly and childish.

"She didn't," Florimel confirmed my suspicions. "But maybe that's the charm. It would be really creepy to live with the exact copy of one of our siblings. We're a vipers' nest," she sighed.

Fiona agreed. "Perhaps he wished for a clever thing, our dear brother. He's a clever bastard, after all. Maybe your name is a part of that, too. He didn't want a Deirdre, sweet, charming and compassionate as she was, but an ideal of her," she frowned. "Deirdre with no brothers and no sisters, neither axes nor thrones, Deirdre with whom he could live a happy, ordinary existence. You, I presume, were a correct choice."

"Construct," I said, feeling a little nauseated.

Fiona just shrugged. Flora, on the other hand, looked at me with something akin to sympathy.

"I'd not use such... irreversible words. No one knows what the shadows truly are, after all," she offered me. As a kind of consolation, I imagine. It didn't help and she must have noticed, because she added thoughtfully, "Both Corwin and I have spent a long, long time in the Shadows. At some point we learnt to... cherish the Shadows and their inhabitants. To treat them as an equals."

That was a better attempt, definitely. These days, I sometimes take some comfort in the premise – that maybe he grew to love me as myself, not as a girl who resembled his late, dearest sister. These days – at that time I was too hurt to even try.

"Yet I'm his 'privilege', am I not?" I retorted bitterly. Those words stopped Corwin, who had just emerged out of the wardrobe, in mid-air. It seemed like he wanted to say something – a few pretty, flamboyant sentences, doubtlessly – but Florimel grabbed his hand and Fiona raised her palm (there was a card in it, from what I could see in the dim light) and then they disappeared.

I'm not sure if I blinked. I'm damn sure I didn't cry.

I took all of Corwin's clothes, personal things etc. and gave them to charity. I still didn't cry. Whether that was because of shock, hatred or some inner strength – I couldn't tell.

'***

A year or so later, when I forgot about the whole affair – well, to the extent one can forget learning that they live in one of billions parallel universes, worlds which are but a Shadow of the few "true" beings and places, worlds which are someone else's dreams – I met Merlin.

He was kind enough to introduce himself. Merlin, son of Corwin and Dara, the King of the Courts of Chaos. We were in the middle of the street. The crowd of people and automobiles passed near us, constantly, the smell of fresh bread and brioches from nearby bakery diffused with the colognes and perfumes of the passengers, some woman was talking loudly into her mobile phone. And he was telling me he was a king. Of Chaos, no less. Indeed.

I burst into laugher. When I finally got a hold of myself, I had tears in my eyes and the muscles in my abdomen ached, about to start cramping.

"Who is king in the great and mighty Amber, then?" I asked, still giggling absurdly. The situation, I think, rather justified my behaviour.

"A man. Drummer and gambler," he answered with ostentatious seriousness. "Random is his name."

"I see." His reply took me by surprise. "And then, what do the fair and mighty Courts of Chaos want from me?"

"Nothing, really," he sighed, knitting his brows. "I just... I just want to apologise and maybe offer some compensation or – explanation. I don't know. I think I just wanted to meet you."

"And now you have," I observed curtly.

"Yeah, but...," he hesitated. "Care for a coffee? Or lunch?"

'

I should have known better and said "no". But he was nice, that boy, and seemed truly embarrassed somehow – very much not kingly behaviour, that – and my anger had faded over the last months. I could never be angry for long, never could truly wish harm upon any being. I could never really hate Corwin – I forgave him in less than a week.

Sometimes I wonder if that all-embracing compassion was just another aspect of Corwin's dream, just another trait of that Deirdre, the one who had died long before I was born in a world far, far away. Or maybe it was me, just me, ever and always me. My own sympathy, my own beauty, my own tender eyes.

Yet, at that moment, my reaction could be boiled down to curiosity, I think. I might hate the idea of Amber, sure. But that doesn't mean I wasn't interested in the force which presumably governs half of the multiverse.

We sat in a nice, cosy cafe, completely empty in the early afternoon. I took a pot of green tea with lemongrass, he chose coffee. Black, no milk, no sugar. And after a quarter of an hour or so I realised his embarrassment and awkwardness were a facade. He was a sharp, dazzlingly intelligent man; just like his father. More honest – or just more direct – though, as in the first ten minutes he made me an offer.

"You could go to Amber itself, you know. Or just on a Shadow-walk. You'd understand, then. It's... it's incredible, to see worlds changing at your thought, the fabric of reality all liquid and smooth under your mind – it's the beautiful kind of power. We tend to forget about that, just the way people forget about all that beauty behind the computers, cell phones, cars and fridges. It's a mistake I freely admit."

"It's a beautiful kind of power", I repeated. "One I'll never possess."

Merlin shrugged.

"I can hardly compose at all," he observed. "Neither am I a good poet. I'm a programmer and a painter of sorts, though. They're nice gifts, too, aren't they?"

"It's not the same," I protested.

"Really? Writers do create worlds from their words and ideas. They just whisk them off their fingers. Flick them off like ash. Composers do the same, their worlds are just a little less... narrative. More colours and feelings, and abstractions. Very nice worlds, too," he smirked. "Of course, in reality it's hard work, creating, but make no mistake, Shadow-walking could be exhausting as well. And dangerous, especially if one doesn't pay attention to the details: the atmosphere, the gravity, the laws of physics...", he sighed and then added melancholically, "The line between the gods and the poet – the artist – was always a most blurred one."

I didn't believe him entirely – but his words still brought me some comfort I hadn't known I had needed.

"I finished the music to Corwin's poems." I said abruptly. "I find them... nice, though a little traditional. I mean: very traditional in their... approach to the avant-garde. Still modern, but..." I stumbled, feeling strangely silly for telling him that – yet after a second of hesitation I went on, babbling about how I put the allusions to jazz into my pieces and how I like to think they're synesthetic, partly at least, because I assign the motifs to the colours appearing in the poems...

I could have sworn that I only summarised the most important issues, yet when I ended the explanations, the cafe was quite full, he had finished his third coffee and the sun's position indicated I had talked at least for an hour. I fell silent, somehow ashamed – but not much, since he had seemed to listen carefully the whole time.

"Sounds great", he smiled then. "I'm glad that you're all right. I was... well, irritated when I heard that they just left you there, with just some half-baked explanations and no real knowledge..." He rolled his eyes. "Damn, my family can be a bunch of deeply irresponsible bastards sometimes. I was like that, too. And it cost me—" he trailed off, looking suddenly vary. And tired, I noticed. Very tired.

"I'm all right", I assured him, because that seemed like the right thing to do. He wasn't at fault, after all. "I'm starting my career as a serious composer, as you can see – isn't that great?" I laughed, light, silvery laughter as I realised it was true. "And I'm no longer angry at your father", I smiled. "How's he doing?"

Merlin grinned.

"He was heartbroken for a while, of course, but he – we – really had the world to save and that's one a hell of distraction, believe me. After all that, he wrote a cycle of sonnets and more than a handful of other poems. Random – the king of Amber, the gambler and drummer I've mentioned – published them and the book became a huge success. His songs, poems and books always do. It was predictable, really, but we all feigned surprise and delight, because when it comes to his art he's as neurotic as any random, stereotypical writer. He just craves reassurance."

I blinked. It was... nice news, I thought. Or maybe the Deirdre in me did. Or maybe it didn't matter.

The tea was gone, so I ordered another pot, white with jasmine this time.

"He should publish his works from... from there", I made a sweeping gesture in an attempt to encompass the whole room, city, Shadow. "They are really very good," I added mildly.

Merlin shook his head.

"He wouldn't agree to that. He thinks they belong to you and this Shadow, not to Amber. He might be right. You were his muse, after all. They're rightfully yours. Like the letters."

"The lawyers won't agree with you, I'm afraid," I observed, smiling slightly.

"Amber has its own lawyer. He can take care of the formalities, if you wish. He is from a Shadow similar to yours, by the way. My father's friend," he added after a second of hesitation. And then, quickly, "So, you see, you should come to Amber someday. It's not like you would be the only guest from a Shadow there."

I smiled beatifically. Compassionately. Beautifully. I smiled with the smile which, I concluded from what little information I had, had belonged to Deirdre. But it had always felt easy and good on my lips, especially when I needed to – wanted to – lie.

And I wanted to lie, right then.

"Thank you for your invitation. Maybe one day I'll come."

My gratitude was genuine; I considered him a rather nice man. I simply didn't want to concern myself with otherworldly affairs any more. The question of identity, hung over me by his relatives, was definitely enough for one life.

Merlin didn't seem to notice anything wrong with my smile, though he did decode my lie and seemed almost disappointed for a while. But then it went away and he looked relaxed and friendly again. Regular guy, one would think. The strangest king I could ever have imagined.

We talked a little more. I asked about Corwin's sister, out of curiosity – and learnt that my evil witch, Florimel, was living a quiet and luxurious life on her favourite Shadow and that Fiona had involved herself in some kind of not-exactly-forbidden, but not-exactly-welcomed affair with one of Merlin's brothers.

"Your family seems—" I paused, looking for a word. I didn't find any, but he cover my blunder with honest, long laughter.

"Nuts. Both my families are positively crazy. And they, of course, of course, consider me crazy, because I'm trying – I was trying – to live an ordinary life. No thrones, no ambitions, no cabals – I'm clearly a lunatic or a fool!" he exclaimed, the recent bout of laughter still shining in his eyes.

"But you're a king", I pointed out, a little confused. Merlin stilled.

"Not by choice," he answered finally, with a note of resignation in his voice. "But all is well which ends well – and I managed to save the world, so", he shrugged nonchalantly. "Saving the world is kind of our family hobby."

And then came the time to say our goodbyes and so we did. My heart was somewhat lighter and he seemed to be contented, too. Yet there was still something, that little, foolish doubt—

"Wait!" I grabbed his arm on the empty street – perfect location if one wanted to disappear into a thin air without starting a panic – suddenly feeling desperate. "Could you tell me if I – if I am really like your father's sister? Do I – how similar am I to her?"

His face fell for a moment. Then he shook his head firmly, explaining:

"I've never know her – to be honest, I hardly know my own father – but don't think it matters." He frowned. "I've met ghosts of Deirdre and many Shadows of her. Each of them was different in some aspects and each of them was herself and only herself. Your name is Dolores, not Deirdre, either way. And even if it was not – names are just names, appearances are just appearances. Many people bear the same names, many people look alike – and what of that? Nothing. You're you, my aunt was my aunt. And if you don't believe me, check this." He took a card of his pocket. "Did my aunts told you what a Trump is?"

Well, they did say something. In the part about 'teleporting into strangers' bedrooms'. But I had never seen one, so I stared at that one, fascinated. It showed a woman who looked exactly like me – black hair, pale skin, blue eyes – wearing a black dress with a silver girdle.

"Deirdre," I mumbled, more than a little shocked. "And... And me?" I added as an afterthought.

"Not you", he protested fervently. "Not you at all. If I tried to reach you by this Trump – you would not answer. Not because you're a Shadow or any other silly reasons my aunts would give you, but because it's not your portrait. I can paint a Trump of you, if you want – but this one is for Deirdre and nobody else will ever be able answer to it. And if I make one for you, then in no world, be it Amber or another Shadow, will a being that could answer its call ever be born."

I went silent, eying the cold, cold card suspiciously. Merlin waited for me for a few minutes, then took the Trump from my hand, smiled once more, bowing overdramatically —

"Take care, Dolores. Goodbye," he murmured, becoming two-dimensional abruptly, "and hello, as always," he added softly, though I have no clue whether that was addressed towards me – and disappeared into the air.

'

That was the end of that little fickle romance of mine, so far, although they did send a lawyer, a very nice man, who made sure that all rights to Corwin's work would be legally transferred to me. Something tells me that the fundamental forces of the world are never done with their poor pawns quite so easily – but maybe I'm a pawn small enough for them to overlook. I certainly hope so.

And even if they do come to me one day, well; I can create melodies from nothing. People have died because of songs and poems before. So I'm sure there's a world – a Shadow – where a good song can become a weapon. A very lethal one.


End file.
